The Study of the Blade
by Grav
Summary: Elrond makes a study of the Morgul blade, though he is not sure how he will put the knowledge to use.


AN: Elves, I tell you. Sheesh.

Spoilers: The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not mine at all.

Rating: Teen

Characters: Elrond, Gandalf, Galadriel, Frodo

Summary: Elrond makes a study of the Morgul blade, though he is not sure how he will put the knowledge to use. 

* * *

**The Study of the Blade**

The sight of the blade is more than enough to make his blood run cold. An old fear it wakes in him, as it wakes in Galadriel and in Mithrandir, but a newer sadness too: a dark knife of this like had cost him his lady. His four hundred years of peace have been harder fought than most, and have cost a greater price. It is, he thought, a measure of his connection to the world of Men. It is those hardy farmer and brave woodsman, and their wives, who pay in blood. Elves pay in isolation. Elrond pays in both.

Saruman might ignore the portents, might be content to wait and wait and hope the world rights itself, but Elrond can understand Mithrandir's compulsion to watch and meddle. Moreover, he can understand that Galadriel lets him do it, saying both no and yes when he comes to her for counsel.

Gandalf's abrupt departure signals the end of their council, and Saruman does not linger. Galadriel does not come down into Imladris proper, but Elrond can see her still standing on the promontory, looking out at the valley that, even with his magic and her own, could not save her daughter. He climbs the stairs again and she turns, but does not look at him. Instead, her eyes rest on the blade, which still lies on the table, though he has wrapped it again.

"You must study the blade Radagast sent to us," Galadriel says. "Your craft will be enough to keep its malice at bay."

"As you say, my lady," Elrond replies, doing his best to conceal his distaste for the task.

«The past is lost to us, but the memories are slow to fade.» Her voice is in his head. «We will see her, and so we should not forget. But there is work to be done before that comes to pass, if we wish it to come to pass at all.»

Elrond bows, acceding to her request. Though it gives him no joy, he will study the Morgul blade. Better to do so here, where the power of Vilya holds the Dark at bay. And Galadriel is rarely incorrect in her premonitions. If she counsels that study is needed, then study he will. 

* * *

"My Lord Elrond!" comes the cry from the gate-guard. "Lord Glorfindel's horse approaches, and only the Halfling sits astride the saddle."

"The River has been raised, my lord," comes a call from the tower. "The wraiths are swept away, but the Halfling swoons."

"Send out more riders," Elrond says. "Find the others, for surely Glorfindel is with them, and retrieve the Halfling. I fear if the wraiths were chasing him, he must have some grave injury that called them to him."

The elves in the lower courtyard disperse, most to the stables for additional mounts, but a few to the river bank to retrieve the Lord Glorfindel's horse and the Halfling it bears. Elrond makes quick stock of his medical stores. Aragorn would have his own supplies, but if he'd sent the Halfling alone, it must be dire.

"My lord!" cries the gate-guard, and Elrond descends the stairs, his sleeves catching the wind.

"Carry him up to the eastern chambers," Elrond says. "The light and air will be as restorative as anything I can do for him."

The elven-guard inclines his head and begins the ascent. Elrond follows, and Mithrandir meets them on the landing.

"Oh, my poor Frodo," the wizard says.

"Save your pity, my friend," Elrond says. "We have time yet."

Time is the gift of the elves, after all. They always have it, until they do not. There is something in Mithrandir's face that Elrond does not like, something about the Enemy and Saruman and time, but there is nothing he can do about any of those things. What he can do, is aid the Halfling.

"Make sure we are not disturbed," Elrond says, very quietly, and Mithrandir knows what he is going to try.

Frodo is fading already. When Elrond finds the wound, it is not so bad at the surface. He recognizes the foul poison, though. He knows it in his heart, and he knows it from the decades of study he dedicated to the Morgul sword at Galadriel's behest.

"You are lucky, my friend," he whispers to the Halfling in Westron, though the little one cannot hear his words. "We are all fortunate in a way, when the Lady Galadriel's sight turns upon us."

Estel has begun the healing with athelas, and Glorfindel has put his own strange magic upon the wound as well, but neither of them will be enough. Even kingsfoil is not enough to draw out this darkness, and Glorfindel's approach was always the more foolhardy and direct. This will need a power that the Dark Lord has never touched, though Elrond knows the Enemy wishes very, very much to have it.

He sinks into Vilya, and suddenly all of time is his. He can see it now, the broken piece of Morgul sword that moves through the Halfling's body, craving his heart's blood and his soul's fire. Elrond lays his hand, ring exposed, on the blackened skin around the sword's bite. With Mithrandir to guard the door, Elrond does not fear that his secret will be revealed, but in truth his fear is more that he will tap into the full power of his burden, and then never want to give it up.

He does not know the words he chants, but he feels the blade respond. It hates to answer his call, but it has no choice. Slowly, slowly, he draws the shard from Frodo's body and the poison from his wound. He looks at the piece, his elf-eyes clearer than they have ever been, and sees that while he has retrieved the whole of it, it has left something behind in Frodo that he will never be able to cleanse. Still, there will be no further damage. It is safe, now, for Elrond to bind the wound with athelas and wait to see if the Halfling will wake.

He opens the door and calls for a runner. Gandalf sits across the corridor, his staff in his hands, and Elrond knows that his friend has the measure of the situation.

"Did my lord Cirdan ever tell you anything?" Elrond asks. He had got Vilya on the battlefield, pressed into his palm with the last of Gil-galad's strength, and he had been too busy mourning to think.

"No, he did not," Mithrandir replies.

It is the only time they ever speak of it. 

* * *

Days later, Frodo finally wakes up. He is whole, and Elrond finds it difficult to look at him for any length of time. His lady had never healed, and had gone hence from him. How long a hobbit might last, he does not know. Elrond leaves him to the care of his own kin, and takes the high stairs to where the White Council once gathered and Galadriel bid him to make the study that saved the Ring Bearer's life. He has much to think about.

«Well done.» He hears the golden voice again.

«I do not think it will be enough,» he confesses.

«It will be enough for a time,» she says. «I have another task to ask of you.»

And Elrond listens to her, as he always does. 

* * *

Gravity_Not_Included, April 19, 2014


End file.
